


Furtive Looks

by Jenny_Starseed



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, M/M, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenny_Starseed/pseuds/Jenny_Starseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ever notice how Jakes keeps looking at you when he thinks you’re not looking?” asked Strange.</p><p>Morse doesn’t.  But then again, Morse had always been oblivious to such things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furtive Looks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nestra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/gifts).



The rain was terrible and Morse’s side ached. It was the day after Morse had gone to doctor’s to get proper treatment for his bullet wound. It was 5 days after his father’s funeral and 30 days before he could take his police exam. It was 4 days since he had got any sleep that was longer than a four hour nap. It was also 3 days since he had any real food in the fridge. The milk had gone off 7 days ago and the sad bit of lettuce and cheese saw its final days in the overflowing rubbish bin that he just got around to throwing out today. It was two hours since he drank the last of his whiskey and Morse’s mind twitched at the idea of going for another hour more without his bottle of liquid comfort close at hand. He pulled his coat close, wondering where he put the scarf Joan gave him last Christmas. He never minded the cold before, but getting shot somehow made you more vulnerable to things like that. The small grocery store was just across the street and Morse was too wary of the dark, dank stairs up to his flat to bother to get his scarf and gloves.

He took a deep breath and ran in that haphazard why one does while hastily looking left and right and over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t get run over by traffic while still maintaining a brisk speed forward. Too busy paying attention to cars around him, he ran into someone with an “oomph” once he got onto the pavement.

“Oi, watch it,” protested the man. “Morse?”

It was then that Morse realized that it was Peter Jakes he ran into, who was looking at him curiously. “Are you all right?” asked Jakes.

He mustn’t have looked all right because Jakes guided him down the street to the pub next to the store with his hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside mate,” Jakes said. “It looks like you could do with a bit of warmth.”

They sat in a small corner booth, away from the hidden away from the world, ready to interrogate Morse’s dishevelled state in the privacy of this booth.

“You look like hell,” said Jakes.

Morse didn’t bother answer. He seemed to have failed to dress properly for the day and under estimated his energy levels in the morning. He might has well gone out in his vest and pants for the warmth of his coat was nothing but a horrible pretense. His hands were stiff and shaking with cold and his ears burned and ached from exposure. He wanted nothing more than to drink and lie in bed, with Wagner’s best arias filling the empty hollow spaces of his flat.

“What are you doing out there in such a thin coat? You’re going to catch some deathly cold that’s going to spread to me if you’re not careful,” continued Jakes. “For such a copper whom Thursday considers to be Oxford’s finest, you are really daft about your personal care.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” murmured Morse. “I wasn’t going to be out long.”

What Morse didn’t say was that if he went upstairs to fetch a warmer coat, he might never leave his flat for the next 48 hours. It was a chore to lift his head from his pillow. It was an even bigger chore to find clothes that didn’t smell, put them on and leave his flat. Even staying upright for appearance’s sake in front of Jakes was a chore. But one must make an effort if one wants a drink at half past four in the afternoon.

Eventually, a pretty and petite waitress approached them, with a notebook in hand to take their order.

“Just two pints of your best ale and an egg and cress sandwich and a tomato soup,” said Jakes, not bothering to look at the menu.

When the waitress left, Jakes was scrutinizing him again. “What were you doing out there?”

“There wasn’t any food in the flat. I was going to the store when I ran into you,” said Morse. He had no energy for elaborate lies today. Half-truths and lies of omission will have to suffice.

Morse rubbed his hands together in an attempt to gather some warmth in them. Failing to do so, he took off his coat and hung it on the hook that was near the booth. The waitress came with the two pints of beer. Morse took a long sip of beer and felt a little better. He could feel the flush of alcohol infusing his face with a bit of much needed warmth while Jakes was still scrutinizing him. Morse wondered what a sight he was to have Jakes looking at him like that. Often Jakes gazed at Morse with a tinge of envy, usually sneering, opportunistic of any sign of a kink in Morse’s armour. Today, he looked concerned, which didn’t sit well with Morse. The ruckus of laughter and heated conversation warmed the atmosphere of the small pub. But it was a terrible contrast to the awkward silence that was between them.

“You don’t need to fuss,” said Morse. “I’m just under dressed today and I’m feeling the consequences.”

Jakes didn’t look convinced. The waitress came with the food, a modest sandwich cut in two halves with a small bowl of soup on a plate. Morse didn’t feel much like eating so he took another long drink of his beer. Jakes barely touched his beer.

“Any news at the station?” said Morse, hoping to change the subject.

“Jakes rolled his eyes. You’re a regular work-aholic, aren’t you?”

Morse shrugged.

“Nah, nothing much. There’s a talk of a merger. A few of the old timers are considering early retirement with a comfortable pension. Some of the newer lads are taking over your duties while you recover. I think Strange sort of misses you. The others aren’t half as hard working as you, he says.”

Morse takes a bit of his sandwich. The mild creamy taste of the egg and the slightly bitter bite of the cress was a welcome comfort he forgot existed. He hadn’t ate yesterday, there wasn’t any point when he had nothing to do except rest. His sister would call it brooding but that was one of the perks of living on one’s own: no one bothered to ask how you were. That is, until you run into a work colleague like Jakes.

“I could always come back early,” said Morse after swallowing. “I don’t mind.”

“Nah, you’d better stay where you are. Thursday isn’t having you at the station, falling off your chair exhausted when you should be at home, recovering,” said Jakes, before taking a sip of his beer. “Shouldn’t you be studying for your exams instead of doing,” Jakes paused, making a vague sweeping hand gesture at Morse, “…whatever it is you’re doing.”

Morse didn’t bother to answer. His appetite has made a sudden reappearance with the food in front of him. His stomach demanded attention. Who was he to argue with his bodily needs when they gave him a welcome excuse to answer none of Jakes’ questions or pay attention to Jakes’ silent, concerned looks?

“You should get a girlfriend,” continued Jakes. “Some bird that will cook for you and treat you nice. And the sex would be good for you. You look like you don’t get enough of it. Men live longer and better when they’ve got a girl to look after them. It’s a scientific proven fact.”

“It didn’t’ seem to work for my father,” said Morse. “He died almost a week ago. A weak heart the doctor said. Gwen’s cooking didn’t seem to help him much.”

“It seems improper to call your mum by her first name like that.”

“That’s because she’s not my mum,” said Morse, taking another bite. “She’s my step-mother.”

“Your parents were divorced?”

Morse stuffed his mouth with the rest of his sandwich, hoping that Jakes would get bored of this line of inquiry if he took enough time to chew through the giant wad of egg, bread and cress in his mouth. Judging by the way Jakes leaned forward, waiting for an answer, there was no such luck.

“Why are you so interested?” he asked, after he swallowed the last of his sandwich.

“I’m not. I’m just making polite conversation.”

Morse stirred his soup with no desire to drink it. “Why are you being so nice to me today? You used to hate the sight of me.”

“I don’t want anything from you if that’s what you’re asking,” said Jakes, frowning.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” said Morse, reaching for his wallet. “If it’s all the same, I hope you don’t mind if I cut this short. I have to write my exam this month.”

“Sure, it’s not a problem. You don’t have to trouble yourself with the bill,” said Jakes, pulling out his wallet to put a couple of tenners on the table.

Morse nodded and got up to put on his coat. “Thank you for the lunch. It was unexpectedly kind of you.”

Morse exited the pub and headed for the small grocery store next door wondering if he had enough money in his pocket for a large bottle of whiskey. He checked his pockets and found a twenty pound note and about 50p in change in his pocket. It will have to be enough for now.

________*

“Ever notice how Jakes keeps looking at you when he thinks you’re not looking?” asked Strange.

Morse stared at his book, trying to figure out a way to keep his eyes from skimming past the words without comprehension. But he can’t help it. His headaches and his lips are parched from last night’s drink. He sips his tea, wishing it had some good old fashioned Glenlivet in it. It was four in the afternoon in a cosy booth of the King’s Arms pub. Around them were students studying, drinking, making noise and wasting time. Morse kept thinking what a terrible idea it was for him to agree to let Strange quiz him on the exam questions in a pub. He should be in bed. With a well-worn, scratchy Maria Callas record singing to him while he slept away his headache.

“He’s doing it now,” said Strange.

Morse looked up, following Strange’s eye line that directed him to Jakes sitting at the bar with a half pint of beer in his hand. Morse just caught Jake’s tell-tale quick glance down to his cup that confirmed that Strange was right: Jakes was staring.

“What do you think he wants?” asked Strange. His eyes narrowed. “He’s not blackmailing you, is he?”

“Is that something Jakes is known to do?” asked Morse, returning his eyes to the brown, dog-eared book in front of him.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s not the most honest copper.”

Instead of answering, Morse looked at Jakes. For the first time, properly looked at him like he would when he first meets someone for an interview in an investigation. Jakes was pulling something out of his jacket pocket, producing a small packet of cigarettes. His dark head is bent as he lights his cigarette. Holding the cigarette carefully between his two slim fingers, he pulled it away from his lips, exhaling the smoke. His long neck exposed as he tilted his head upwards as he watched the winding, white stream of smoke curl gracefully out of his mouth as he exhaled. Morse’s mouth went dry. The bastard was likely one of those men who only started smoking because it looked good in bars. There was something too deliberate and practised in Jake’s actions to be properly passed off as naturally graceful. It’s like everything about Jakes. He tries much too hard. Morse sometimes wished he could sink low to such fakery, but he’d be too disgusted with himself if he did. Jakes obviously had no qualms about such inconveniences. The sly and challenging look Jakes gave Morse when he caught him looking said everything Morse needed to know about Jakes. He quickly returned to his studies and put thoughts of Jakes out of his mind for the rest of the day.  
____________*

“I thought you were above doing general duties like this,” said Morse, adjusting his uncomfortable collar.

“I owed Anderson a favour,” said Jakes. He slicks his hair back and straightens his tie. “They needed a smart looking pair of coppers today. It is the annual charity silent auction for the underprivileged children. It’s very serious, Morse. Try not to look so bored.”

It was a Saturday night in the Great Hall of Lonsdale College. The dark hall with its rich wooden furnishings, wooden panel walls with staid but slightly majestic paintings of stern Dons of yesteryear staring down on the occupants below. The ambient lighting and the tea candles casted a warm, rich, buttery atmosphere to the normally severe and imposing space. Rows and Rows of tables dressed in rich red velvet displayed the expensive wares up for silent auction to raise money for the Society of Women against Poverty fundraising drive. Middle aged men and women of all shapes and sizes filled the room, browsing the items in neatly formed lines. At the end of the room, near the entrance of the Great Hall, stood Morse and Jakes in their best suits.

“I don’t understand why we need to be here,” said Morse, still fiddling with his collar. “Couldn’t the Society of Women against Poverty hire their own private guards? Judging from the starting bid on most of these items, you’d think they could have afforded it. It’s a waste of police resources.”

“Orders came from on high,” said Jakes, as if that was the most obvious explanation in the world. “That’s all Thursday would tell you but I have it on good authority that the Chairwoman of the Society of Women against poverty plays bridge with Mrs. Bright every Thursday and Sunday night. Mrs. Bright is the reason why any of us are roped into standing guard at these events.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’ve got eyes and ears,” Jakes said pompously. “If you keep your ears open, you can learn a lot of things. You might call it insider’s information. But you’re too good to bother to know any of this. For instance, word is that Thursday has pulled some strings to get you the easiest general duties tasks. Nothing strenuous. Nothing that would accidently put you near a murder case. You’ve seemed to have a sixth sense for sniffing out murder cases where none should exist.”

“Is that so?” said Morse.

Jakes nodded. “If you want, I could do you a favour. I know a bloke who can arrange the rota so you can do something more interesting than babysitting these elderly ladies.”

“No, thanks,” said Morse, not bothering to keep the derision out of his voice.

“Suit yourself,” said Jakes.

After ten minutes of silently watching grey but carefully coiffed haired ladies and their husbands observe each ornate bracelet, fob watch and other ornate bits and bobs for the wealthy, Morse noticed Jakes was staring at him. Staring specifically, at the collar of his shirt.

“What?”

Jakes move closer, inspecting the shirt. “Is that my shirt you’re wearing? The one I lent you the night you were stabbed at the Bodleian?”

Morse looked down. He didn’t think about it in the morning. Most white shirts were interchangeable with his others. But when he thought about it, he noticed that the fit on this one was snugger than his other shirts. The cotton was crisp, white and stiff instead of the worn blunted fuzz of his other shirts.

Morse could feel Jakes scrutinizing him. Morse’s dark blue tie had a slight coffee stain on it and he hadn’t had the chance to iron his trousers this morning. He had lost some weight and his jacket no longer fitted him.

“I’m sorry,” Morse murmured. He felt the tell-tale hateful sensation of his cheeks warming and prickling with embarrassment. “I’ll return it to you on Monday after I’ve laundered it.”

Morse looked up from his shirt to find Jakes hadn’t stopped looking at him. Appraising him. Like he was a bug being studied or…admired.

“Nah, you keep it,” Jakes said finally. “It looks good on you.”

“Thank you,” said Morse.

“Girls tend to fawn over men like you, don’t they?” observed Jakes. Morse couldn’t tell if Jakes was being derisive, envious or admiring in his comments. Probably an uneven mix of all three with the way he continued his train thought. “The handsome, moody gentleman with the Oxford education.”

“I never graduated,” corrected Morse.

“It doesn’t matter. You have that moody bookishness that many girls fancy. And you’re not bad looking. It’s too bad you’re too daft to use it your advantage. If I were you, I’d turn those baby blue eyes and stare solemnly at every bird I fancy. Girls would think that’s flattering. Think of the opportunities.”

Jakes eyes did that quick sweeping top to bottom glance of his body that he often did with pretty women that walked passed him on the street. God knows Morse had witnessed this very unsubtle demonstration of appreciation often enough when they were on duty, guarding crime scenes. Except the glance ended with Jakes resting his gaze on Morse’s eyes. It was strange to have be the subject of that studious look of interest. This must be the look in the pub that Strange was talking about.

“Don’t look at me like that,” snapped Morse, slouching his shoulders and shoving his hands into his pockets in an unconscious attempt to shrink away from Jakes’ attention.

  
“You’re a strange man, Morse,” said Jakes. He directed his gaze on the tables of finery, his bored mask of indifference slipped uneasily on his face.

“I’m just saying, it’s a shame that you don’t dress properly,” Jakes continued, sounding very superior and pleased with the advice he was undoubtedly about to give. “You remind me of a schoolboy whose mother recently stopped dressing him in the morning and now he can be bothered to learn how to do it himself. Stand straighter, replace that jacket with one that fits and comb your hair a bit, you’ll find that you’ll be turning heads. No need to be so snippy with well-meaning advice, mate. No wonder you’re not very popular back at the station.”  
_____*

“Morse!”

Morse startles. He quickly closed the file on his desk but Thursday had already seen it. Thursday’s imposing six foot bulky frame marched towards Morse, disapproval etched on the corners of Thursday’s mouth.

“Is that the McKinney file?” asked Thursday, hovering over Morse like a father who’s caught his own son looking at a dirty magazine.

Morse handed the file over to Thursday, who skimmed the file to confirm that yes, it is the McKinney file.

Thursday closed the file and took a breath. “Morse, you’re on general duties. You’re not authorized to investigate. May I remind you that it was a courtesy that allowed you to work on cases in the past without proper qualifications? I don’t like my good will to be taken advantage of. I can easily make it so that that you’ll be on general duties for another month. I have the grounds and the authority to do so.”

Morse wanted to be angry but it was hard to be when Thursday looked at him like that. His stern face and set jaw could not hide the concern plainly written in his eyes. Morse looks down at his hands. “Yes, sir.”

Thursday’s eyes soften. “Now, I know it’s not easy sitting on the sidelines,” said Thursday, his voice taking on that warm paternal tone that sometimes comfort Morse or angers him. “But you’re no good to me if you can’t take orders and prove to me and your superiors that you’re fit for work. It’s just another two months yet.”

“Actually sir, you can blame me,” said Jakes, appearing in front of Morse with cup of tea in his hand. “I asked him for his opinion on the McKinney file.”

Thursday raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I’m having an awful time of it and I’d figured a fresh pair of eyes would do me good.”

Thursday looked at Morse. “Is that so?”

“Um, yes sir,” said Morse. “Jakes asked me this morning.”

Morse could feel the air go tense in the room before Thursday sighed. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt for you to take a look. But if I see you interviewing witnesses or investigating without my authorization, I can put you on another two additional months of general duties. Understood?”

“Understood,” said Morse.

When Thursday disappeared into his office, Morse turned around and found Jakes sitting on the edge of his desk as if that was his rightful place.

“You’re that bored, aren’t you?” said Jakes. He chuckled and shook his head. “The McKinney case is a straight forward hit and run. No special codes or clues for you to play Sherlock Holmes. Strange is looking up the license plate numbers as we speak. The case will be solved before you can say bob’s your uncle.”

Morse rubbed his eyes. Last night’s whiskey on an empty stomach was a bad idea.

“Are you all right? Had a rough night?” asked Jakes.

“No worse than most,” said Morse. He rubbed his neck. “Thank you for that.”

“It’s not a problem, mate. If there’s anything funny going on in the case, I’ll have you take a look.”

“Do I owe you anything for that?”

Jakes rolled his eyes. “God, you’re a suspicious sod. Not everything comes with a price. Is it that hard to believe that I like you?”

Morse was about to open his mouth when Jakes held up his hand. “Don’t answer that.”

Jakes placed the cup of tea in front of Morse, next to the file. “Just take care of yourself,” he said and left Morse with his half formed thoughts.

____*

There was a knock on the door. Morse groggily got up. He checked his breath by blowing it onto his palm and winced. He groped for the bottle of mouth wash on his bedside table, gurgled some in his mouth before spitting it in a small glass tumbler that previously held the contents of his favourite rum. He got up off the bed and put on his shirt and checked to make sure his trousers were properly zipped.

He opened the door to find Jakes in his black suit, black tie and slicked back hair. The contrast between Jake’s dark handsome looks and Morse’s pale, disheveled sickly look made Morse groan inwardly.

“Good morning to you too,” Jakes said, smirking. “May I come in or are you going to have me stand here all day?”

Morse opened the door wider to let Jakes in. Jakes wandered around Morse’s flat, his eyes roving around the small bedsit. His face not curious but not quite as disgusted as Morse predicted it would be. Jakes wandered to his desk. Touched a thing here and there. The keys of his typewriter to the wrinkled program to a concert Morse recently attended. He glanced at the books and records to the numerous empty bottles of rum and whiskey in the bin.

 

He picked up a half full bottle of cheap whiskey, opened it and sniffed it and coughed. “I never took you for a drunkard. I thought you were one of those boring straight and narrow types since you never seemed to have much of a social life.”

Morse shrugged his shoulders. “As if you’re a model copper.”

Jakes smirked. “You’re right about that.”

Jakes looked out the window, as if contemplating something. The weak sunlight of the window softened his normally sharp profile as he looked down on the street below. “But this stuff will kill you eventually. I’ve seen it happen to people I know. You’re too good for that.”

Not knowing what to make of Jakes’ unexpectedly kind and concerned comment, he took the bottle from Jakes’ hand, screwing the top on and putting it on the shelf beside his favourite opera records. “So what are you here for?”

“Do I need an explanation to see you? I thought we were mates.”

Morse scoffed. “We’re not mates.”

“I’m sorry,” snapped Jakes. “I forgot you’re the lonely genius. It really impresses Thursday, doesn’t it?”

“Why are you always like this?” exclaimed Morse. He could feel heat in his face growing. “You’re always in my business, asking how I am or checking up on me. And then you’re suddenly hostile. We’re colleagues, but I don’t think we’re friends and sometimes I think you want to be my enemy. Strange said you kept looking at me funny but I didn’t know what he meant until that day at that charity event.”

Jakes, the king of the penetrating stare, couldn’t look at Morse now. It confirmed everything Morse willfully and forcefully try to deny and put out of his mind. Everything that was frightful and maybe a little exciting. There was little to do but to let the words fall from his mouth.

“You fancy me.”

“Piss off,” snarled Jakes. “I am not a poof. I don’t want to shag your brains out like those nitwit little secretaries you past every day in the office.”

“What are you going on about?”

“You’re really oblivious, aren’t you? They’re looking at you every day, wondering what your underwear looks like but you’re too bloody stupid to notice. It’s bloody annoying. It’s like I have to do something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like this, “said Jakes. He was suddenly really close to Morse. He was too close for comfort. Morse could feel Jakes’ heavy breath on his neck. The smell of cigarettes and overpriced aftershave permeate everything about Jakes. Suddenly, Jakes’ lips were on Morse’s and Morse’s mind goes startlingly blank. Jakes wasn’t a very expert kisser. He jabbed his tongue into Morse’s mouth so quick and sloppy. But it didn’t feel like a violent intrusion. It felt familiar. Almost like being kissed by a girl. It had been a long time since someone had kissed Morse with this much enthusiasm that he returns the favour. Jakes makes a choking sound at the back of his throat but he doesn’t seem to be protesting.

They finally part. Jakes’ hair was disheveled. Did Morse do that? He didn’t remember having his hands in Jake’s hair. He looks at his hand and felt Jakes’ pomade slippery between his fingers. Morse wiped the oil off his hands onto his shirt, feeling vaguely disgusted by it.

“So, um” stammered Morse. He could still feel Jakes’ breath on his neck. The bastard wasn’t making a move to move away. Damn it to tell that it was making Morse feel awkward and…a little aroused.

“You’re not bad at it,” said Jakes, sliding his fingers through his hair to fix it. “I’ve had better, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”

Before Morse could respond, Jakes kissed him again. With an undignified “oomph” sound, Morse felt himself being directed backwards and pushed onto the small bed that was suited to neither of them. Their long limbs tangled together on the sheets, pushing off and wrinkling Morse’s beloved books. He almost began to protest when Jakes shushed him with a nibble on the neck.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about those books,” he murmured as he began to unbutton Morse’s shirt. Another book fell with a soft thud.

“Um, no” said Morse. Apparently, one word answers and non-descript sound were all Morse was capable of uttering when Jakes was sliding his hand down his chest and kissing him like that. Morse closed his eyes and took in the sensations of Jakes’ touch.

“You’re really liking this, aren’t you?” he asks, his hand on the zipper of Morse’s trousers. The zipper came down and Jakes’ hand slip inside his trousers. Morse hissed and buried his head in the pillow when Jakes palmed his hardening cock. Morse’s eyes snapped open and looked at Jakes properly for the first time since the kiss. His hair was still molded into that oily style but his face was flushed and his eyes were intense. They stared at each other. It felt different from all their other stares. No longer furtive and secret. No, the look they were sharing was almost challenging, but not quite. More assessing and summing up, of waiting and watching. It felt like Jakes was asking for permission.

It wasn’t so different from when Morse had a girl in his bed, with her hands in his pants. He pulled Jakes by the tie for a kiss. Breathless, Jakes followed and they made out. It felt lovely and all Morse wanted was Jakes’ hands on him, bare skin to skin. He hastily tried to get Jakes’ suit jacket off.

“Hold on a sec,” said Jakes, sitting up. “Don’t ruin this. I paid a lot for this suit and I don’t want your lusty hands tearing it apart.”

He straddled Morse’s torso and took off his jacket. The tie came off, followed by his white shirt and vest. The belt was undone. Morse reached to pull down the zipper of his trousers and timidly reached for his cock but never managed it. There was another awkward moment before Jakes leaned down to kiss him again, whispering, “Don’t over think it, mate. It’s just sex.”

“Don’t over think it?”

Jakes rolled his eyes. “Right. I forgot who I was talking to.” He pushed Morse’s unbuttoned white shirt off his shoulder. “Let’s get everything off. I want to see you.”

Eventually, shoes, socks, trousers and pants came off and onto a pile of the floor. Jakes didn’t seem to care where the clothes went, so they landed haphazardly on top of Morse’s fallen books. Jakes’ hands were everywhere. On his back, his hips, his jaw and lips. It felt very good to be taken care of. Like someone cared. The slide of Jakes’ cock on his own felt good. Everything about Jakes right now felt good. Morse liked the heavy, wiry weight of Jakes against him. He avoided touching his hair. The tacky oily residue of Jakes’ pomade was still on his hands. A petty part of Morse liked the idea of spreading the pomade all over Jakes. On his shoulders, his back, his hips and the back of his neck. Warmth pooled in his gut and Morse was past caring what his neighbours heard as long as Jakes kept touching him, moving between his spread legs, rutting and gasping and kissing him and making a mess on his stomach. It wasn’t long before that welcomed flood of warmth pulled his limbs taut before releasing him boneless, against Jake’s spent cock.

Jakes buried his head in the crook of Morse’s shoulder. Their harsh breaths slowly calming to a steady rhythm was the only sound in the room. The bed was much too small but Morse didn’t mind when it meant Jakes had no choice but to curl up so close to Morse after sex.

“Do you want to do that again?” asked Jakes, quietly.

“I think I need a bit of time,” said Morse.

“I mean, in the near future,” said Jakes. There was a pregnant pause. “Or we can pretend this never happened.”

“Do you want to do that?”

Jakes lifted his head. He carded his hand through Morse’s hair before letting his fingers trail to the slight stubble on Morse’s jaw. Jakes planted a light, chaste kiss on his lips before settling his head against Morse’s bare chest. “No. Definitely not.”

**Author's Note:**

> For Nestra who likes Kissing, teasing, tension, banter, humor, character ambiguity, sacrifice, found families, slow realizations, fast realizations, the slow burn of desire, explosive confrontations, wry self-knowledge, self-discovery, loyalty, love. I hope I hit a few of those in this fic.


End file.
